Following the Steps
by roane
Summary: John knows every step of what comes next, just as sure as if there were a dance diagram on the floor of the flat. In a few minutes, he's going to walk into the sitting room, and with both of them in their starting positions, it will begin.


'Routine' is a word that John hears every day, almost always in a negative light. 'Get away from the same old dull routine' the adverts admonish. He hears a couple of the Yard junior officers talk about 'routine questioning' and they don't sound excited about it.

They don't understand. Routine is a lot of things as far as John is concerned: comfort, stability, order. On deployment, at home, routine means an air of normalcy, the knowledge that even if your hair is on fire, evening tea is always at the same time so you're doing something right.

Routine means knowing how to get something done in the most efficient way possible, with as much or as little thought as you like.

And for John, it is never, ever boring.

In John's head there's an entire set of what he thinks of as Evenings at 221B. A Between Cases Evening is the most unpredictable. When there's no case to keep Sherlock's mind busy, there's no way to tell what could happen. John might fall asleep in front of the telly, or he might get dragged across London to view a particularly compelling collection of fingernail clippings (Sherlock: "Think of the data!"), or he might wind up with Sherlock sprawled and panting over the kitchen table begging for John's cock in his arse.

A Case Evening is more predictable. If they're not actually to the stage where they're chasing criminals in the streets, they're either in the lab or in the flat, Sherlock taciturn and focused while John tries to make him eat something for god's sake.

Post-Case, though, those evenings never seem to vary by so much as a minute, and those are John's favourites. Right now, he's doing the washing up after an enormous meal-takeaway pasta this time-and Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa in a dressing gown, all he'd bothered to put on after showering that afternoon. Which, of course, followed a marathon of sleep.

John knows every step of what comes next, just as sure as if there were a dance diagram on the floor of the flat. In a few minutes, he's going to walk into the sitting room, and with both of them in their starting positions, it will begin.

Sherlock is always sprawled just enough to show off one ridiculously long leg, with a suggestion of his arse. His eyes are closed, his head tilted back with careless abandon in a way that just happens to stretch out the lines of his long neck. John stands in the doorway for several minutes, watching long enough for Sherlock to know that he's there, and that he's watching.

Then it begins. Sherlock stretches out and turns onto his back, dressing gown spilling every which way, pulling open to reveal not only Sherlock's bare legs but a stripe of skin up the side of his body. If it were anyone else, John would call it artless, but this is Sherlock, and Sherlock never does anything without being acutely conscious of the image he presents. This is as close as Sherlock gets to saying, "John, come fuck me now."

Not that Sherlock is reticent about voicing his desires, of course, he's just the laziest fuck John has ever known-literally-and it's so much easier for him to spread his legs and wait to see if John will take the hint.

Fortunately for them both, John is very good with non-verbal cues. Once Sherlock is finished putting himself on display, John leans in the doorway and folds his arms. "Thought Lestrade was going to shit himself when you told him the killer was the babysitter."

"Mm. It was obvious." Sherlock doesn't open his eyes or move a muscle.

"Not to me it wasn't." He pulls up from the doorframe and starts to cross the room. "Not to Lestrade either. Stop pretending you don't know what a fucking genius you are."

"Hmph." John doesn't miss the hint of a smile though, or the slight pink that rises to Sherlock's cheeks.

Every time. Sometimes John thinks the fastest way to make Sherlock hard is to praise his great big brain. He kneels beside the couch and leans over Sherlock, who pretends he doesn't notice. "I never get tired of it," John says into Sherlock's ear. "Watching you put things together that no one else can; do you have any idea how fucking hot that is?" He leans closer until his chest is pressed against Sherlock's side. "One of these days I want to wait until you're right there in that sweet spot, your brain sparking like mad, and I want to go down on my knees in front of you and take your cock in my mouth." Sherlock squirms a little and John presses closer. "Would it distract you? Would your body react at all? I want to find out."

"Lestrade would disapprove." Sherlock still doesn't look at him, but John can hear the catch in his voice, and more importantly, can see the growing outline of his cock.

"Lestrade would probably like to watch." John unties the belt of Sherlock's dressing gown and lets it fall open the rest of the way. "Who wouldn't? Christ, look at you." And he does, stopping and pulling back to look up and down the length of Sherlock's body. The long, lean shape has become as familiar as a favorite passage of a beloved book, each and every line memorized and touched and mouthed until the whole dissolves into pure sensory perception of the individual components. John's barely touched him at all, and Sherlock is already half-hard. Is it the anticipation of what's to come, or is it the praise?

Coming up with ways to praise Sherlock isn't difficult. For good or ill, John is besotted. He pushes the dressing gown further open and watches that pale skin break out in goosebumps. The room is a bit chilly, John supposes. But Sherlock won't be cold for long. "Come to bed," he says, and rises to his feet. He holds out a hand for Sherlock who takes it like John is offering him a hand down from a coach and four. Once Sherlock is on his feet, John pushes the dressing gown off his shoulders and tosses it aside. Sherlock, never one to be bothered by nudity around John, leads the way to their shared bedroom. John is happy to let him, as always, given the view from behind.

Sherlock crawls onto the bed and lies on his side, watching John with hooded eyes. The tension and anticipation in the air is like heat wavering in the air, and John basks in it. He closes the bedroom door behind him, and stays near the door, pulling off his jumper, then unbuttoning his shirt, acutely aware of Sherlock's eyes on him. It had taken ages for John to get used to this level of scrutiny. While he was never precisely a 'turn off the lights before sex' kind of man, neither was he used to a partner who could read his body like a roadside sign.

Now it's all part of the foreplay, the knowledge that they have of each other. Sherlock knows by looking at John exactly how aroused he is, and can predict with startling accuracy what John is going to do next. For his part, John knows Sherlock's body on an almost microscopic level: every crease, every mole, almost every pore of Sherlock's skin. Rather than sating his desire, every moment spent touching Sherlock is like drinking seawater: eventually it's probably going to kill him, but in the meantime, he just wants more.

"You're aroused by the idea of being watched," Sherlock says from the bed. "You want to show off."

"It's what we do, isn't it?" John doesn't stop undressing, but glances at Sherlock with a quick grin. "It's not that-although I don't think I'm wrong about Lestrade." He's lying of course, and Sherlock knows he's lying. John's incredibly aroused when Sherlock watches him.

He pushes his pants and trousers off with an unceremonious gesture and picks them up. The pants go in the laundry basket, the trousers over the back of the chair. Sherlock grumbles as John picks up the rest of the discarded clothes-naked or not, someone here has to have a sense of order, and it's never going to be Sherlock.

"What is it then?" Sherlock resorts to his most seductive voice, a ploy to get John to leave off the household maintenance and tend to the care and maintenance of Sherlock instead.

John smiles, but doesn't stop putting things in order. Sherlock can wait. "You're the one who likes being watched." He glances over. "I just can't resist the idea of sucking you off while you're being brilliant."

Sherlock groans and rolls onto his back. As expected, John's words have thrown that last switch that sends Sherlock from 'mildly aroused' to 'needy'. "Come here. I'll be as brilliant as you like."

"Oh will you," John says. He puts a knee on the bed. "Will I get a lecture on the laws of thermodynamics? Or will it be quantum physics this time?"

"Shut up." Sherlock reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of John's neck, pulling him down and rising up halfway to meet him for a kiss. It's the first real contact they've had since the beginning of the case, aside from casual touches, which are never enough. Sherlock falls back to the bed and John follows, stealing small kisses. He crawls over Sherlock, straddling one long thigh, revelling in the feel of his partially erect cock dragging against skin.

They settle against one another, trading exploratory kisses. Sherlock almost immediately reaches to cup John's arse and pull him in tighter, but not before John can pull up the duvet to cover them. Sherlock's skin is chilly to the touch, but warms beneath John's hands. As their bodies get warmer, their kisses get hotter. The two of them shift and change positions, moving this way and that the better to touch each other. Sherlock can never keep his hands off John's arse, and John can't resist Sherlock's neck. When John finally runs his hand down Sherlock's flank and over his hip, Sherlock arches towards his hand, desperate to be touched.

It's the next step in the dance, every touch and gasp known and expected, no less beloved or exciting in its familiarity. Quite the opposite, like two partners who know each other's steps as well as their own, John knows precisely where to touch and when and how to make Sherlock ache and writhe. There's no fumbling uncertainty, no muttered apologies or awkward discussion.

So many of John's relationships in the past had been based in the energy of discovery, of finding out what a partner liked, who they were. This was the first time he'd experienced the energy that came with absolute, bone-deep knowledge of his partner.

He wraps his hand around both of their cocks, groaning with relief. This first time will be fast-neither of them has the patience for more. Later, they'll take more time. For now, efficiency has its advantages. Later, he'll use the knowledge that goes hand in hand with the efficiency: the knowledge of exactly where not to touch, how to hold off Sherlock's orgasm until John is ready for him to have it.

John's hand is barely big enough to circle both their cocks. He's not so much stroking them as pressing them together, providing extra friction as they thrust at each other in a steady quickstep rhythm. Sherlock's moans are big and shameless, filling the room and surrounding John like a velvety hand.

"John, John…" The sound of his name on Sherlock's plush, irresistible lips makes him groan in response, and together they thrust faster, muscles straining and pushing their bodies together.

Sherlock comes first; he always comes first, and when he's finished, and drops back against the bed, John stays crouched over him, wrapping his fingers tight around his cock. The truth of it is, this is his favourite part: watching Sherlock's face in post-orgasmic bliss, watching his eyes eventually open and look down to watch John as he strokes himself. Sherlock gives a low rumble of appreciation and John savours once again the feeling of being scrutinized, knowing that Sherlock files away every microexpression on John's face.

He wonders if Sherlock strokes himself while cataloguing those expressions. God knows John has done often enough, remembering the way Sherlock strains and writhes beneath him.

It's thinking of Sherlock wanking that does it, pushes John over the edge. He grunts as he comes, still feeling the small dirty thrill of coming over Sherlock's stomach, seeing their semen mingle against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock will push him off and go clean up in just a moment, and then come back ready for more. They've both had all day to sleep-they won't be sleeping now for hours.

John rolls when Sherlock pushes him and lies back, smiling because he knows what comes next. Sometimes he thinks he lives for nights like this, when they have a routine, and that routine is one of the most exciting things he's ever known.


End file.
